Amnesia
by RinaCath
Summary: They tell me I have something called post-traumatic amnesia. No memory, no friends, no family. I don't even know my own name. Something happened to me, and I'm afraid to find out what.


They tell me I have something called post-traumatic amnesia.

Or…I did. They tell me they've told me all this before. A lot, actually. Apparently I don't remember it. See, sometimes if you hit your head, you don't just lose your memory. It stops working. You can't store anything else until it clears. If it ever does. Apparently this is what's happened to me.

They think it's fixed now. My memory. I can remember what happened today, and yesterday. The problem is, that's it. I can't recall a single thing past the doctors waking me up and telling me about all this. They asked me my name, my age, the year, all that usual stuff. I didn't know any of it. I still don't. They've stated calling me 'John', because apparently I didn't have any identification on me when I came in. John Doe. That's who I am now.

I remember certain things. How to work the television, how to read and write, how to speak, obviously. They say I've lost my declarative memory. More specifically, my episodic memory. All the stuff that makes me who I am, I guess. I can remember, for example, how to read and write, but not my birthday.

They don't know what happened to me. Someone found me sitting alone in a park and brought me in. I don't remember that. They looked at scans of my head and found a whole bunch of damage. Apparently someone knocked me around pretty good. There's scrapes and bruises on my arms, but nothing very bad. Sometimes I get headaches, but those are starting to go away. They say it's a miracle I'm as put-together as I am. Besides the memory loss, I'm fine.

So they're releasing me. I'm nervous about that. I don't know who I am, where I live, what I do. How am I supposed to just go out into the world? I don't even have a name. I just want my memory back. I want to know who I am! The doctors say it might still come back, but what if it doesn't? What then?

And yet, some tiny, muted part of me is hoping it won't. My arms still hurt where they're bruised and scratched. If I take too deep a breath my ribs hurt. Something happened to me. Something bad.

Maybe it's better I don't remember.

* * *

Three months ago I was released from the hospital. You wouldn't know it, looking at me now. I'm just like everyone else, a crummy job, a tiny, one-room apartment. People call me John, and I've gotten used to it, but something about it doesn't feel right. I guess it's not the right name. I've tried others, but none of them sounded right. I guess John isn't so bad.

I work in this little dive of a place called _Moe's Feast_. It's a hole in the wall and we don't get many customers. The place is owned by Moe, who's somewhere around his late forties and never seems to be in a good mood. But it's money, and right now I need as much of that as I can get. While I'm wiping down tables, I listen in on conversations, in the hopes that something might spark my memory. So far, nothing's happened, but it hasn't been _that_ long.

I'm still hoping I'll remember everything eventually, but I know I have to accept the reality that I might not. I'm saving now for a better apartment, maybe even a house. I've been looking around for a better job, but with no skills, no job history, and no name, it's been tough.

* * *

I locked the restaurant up and turned down the street, pocketing the key. It was late, and the only light came from the streetlamps overhead, casting dull orange circles on the sidewalk. It was a short walk to my apartment. Maybe ten minutes. Then I climbed up the stairs and into the tiny, one-room excuse for an apartment I lived in.

I tossed my coat on the bed and pulled off my uniform, settling for a pair of sweats instead. It's not a terrible place to live, but I'd like something better. I flicked on the TV and listened to the news, trying to remember all the names they threw at me as I brushed my teeth and washed my face.

I collapsed into bed, listening to the newscasters banter for a bit. I fell asleep like that, hoping the constant supply of current events might bring forth some lost memory as I slept.

My dreams are always odd. I wonder if they were like this before the accident. I'm not sure if they're memories or not. In the morning, I can't tell if I've remembered something or if I'm just recalling the dream. Usually they're bland. I'm sitting in class. I'm waiting for a train. I'm in a cab. No one else features, no other faces or voices, at least, none that I can remember when I wake up. Is this my life? Was this really me, or did I invent this? I can't ever tell. I wake up feeling exhausted, like I haven't even slept.

This pattern continues. I go to work, I come home, I try and catch up on all the politics and Hollywood dramas I've missed, I dream about something that might or might not have happened. I feel bored, I want something to happen, I want to get out of his endless rut. But what can I do? I decide to tough it out through the end of the year. If I haven't remembered anything by then, I'll move on. I'll make a new life and try and forget whatever it is I can't remember. The idea scares me a little, but I know I can't just live forever hoping everything will work out.

My alarm clock broke one night. I woke up in a cold sweat, panicked without really knowing why, and realized it was almost an hour past the start of my shift. I threw myself out of bed and pulled my uniform on two legs at a time, doing up the buttons on the awful orange shirt as I grabbed my keys and bolted out the door. I took the steps two at a time, running my hands through my hair, trying to flatten it, but it wanted to be stubborn. Out the door, down the street, apologizing to the people I bumped into in my mad dash.

I skidded to a stop at the door and threw it open, trying to catch my breath. Moe was behind the bar, looking livid.

"John." he barked. I shuffled over, staring at the ground.

"Well?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, my alarm-"

"Excuses." he says angrily, cutting me off. He digs into me, yelling for a good twenty minutes. My face was red as everyone in the place stared at me. He's probably got reason to be mad, too. I'm supposed to open up and I'm an hour late. But can't he do this somewhere else?

"Sorry." I mumbled when he finally stoped to catch his breath.

"Sorry ain't gonna fill up the register, is it?" he growls. "I lost valuable customers today just 'cause you couldn't haul your ass outta bed."

"Sorry."

"Just get to bussin' the tables, will you?"

I nodded and got to work. He disappeared into the kitchen, where he usually hid during the day. When he actually chose to show up, of course.

I was embarrassed and angry with myself and Moe on top of my usual frustration. I smacked the dishes together harder than usual and ended up breaking one just after the lunch rush. I cleaned it up before Moe could see and tossed the pieces in the dumpster around back, where he wouldn't notice them. He found me as I was counting the money in the register, getting ready to close up.

"Everything add up?"

I nodded.

"Good." He held his stubby hand out and I passed over the bills. He thumbed them for a minute and then pulled out a slip. He handed it to me and I took it, raising my eyebrows.

"Here. Take it."

I did, looking down at the face I'd learned in the last three months as Abraham Lincoln. Five dollars.

"Thank you, sir…"

"You should hold onto that." he said, pocketing the rest of the money. "It's all you're getting today."

"What?" I asked, hoping I'd misunderstood him again.

"Showing up late, breaking dishes, you think you can just get away with this stuff?" Moe said sternly, jabbing a finger in my direction. "I ain't paying you for today. You get here an hour early tomorrow and scrub out the toilets. You do a good job, I'll think about paying you."

"But-"

"Now thank me." he said gruffly. "Most people here would'a fired you already."

I stared at him incredulously. I needed that pay. If he kept cutting my wages like this I'd be stuck here forever, memory or not.

But bad pay was better than none. I shoved the five in my pocket and mumbled a "Thank you, sir." at the ground. He grunted in approval.

"Don't forget to lock up." he called as he left, glass door swinging behind him. I gritted my teeth and closed the register. He'd probably been planning to cut my pay all day. Figured he'd get a good day's work out of me before letting me know. I was furious, but what could I do? I finished wiping down the tables, though a part of me – a part that was steadily getting louder – told me to just give up and call it a night. I was working for free right now.

But if I didn't do my job right Moe probably wouldn't hesitate to fire me. I couldn't afford to give him any more reason to dock my pay.

I wiped down the last table and sat down, exhausted. My head was aching, a steady pounding on my temples. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to work up the energy to get up and walk home.

It happened all at once. In the movies, it's always a sequence, they show the scene playing out in someone's head like they're reliving it. But it wasn't like that. It was as if one minute I was a blank, empty slate, and the next there was something there.

Had I been here before? Maybe it was somewhere else. Talking…I was with someone? Yes. Now that I thought about it I recognized a presence, sitting across the table from me. This table? Was that what stirred the memory? I couldn't bring up any specific words, or a voice. A face, maybe? I could only call up my own, smiling. I'd been happy.

I stared at the peeling table under my elbows. It was hardly even a memory. Just a flash in time. A fuzzy photograph.

But it was something.

* * *

That night my dreams were centered around the diner and the mysterious person I was sitting with. I asked Moe if he'd ever seen me before I'd started working for him but he just told me he got a lot of customers and couldn't be expected to remember all of them. But now I was sure it had been the diner.

After three months of nothing, I finally had something. A glimpse of life before. My hope returned. Maybe now it would come flooding back. Maybe I'd remember my name next. Or the name of whoever it was I'd eaten with. A friend? A relative? I felt fairly certain they were male, but beyond that I was clueless. The only face I seemed to remember was my own, the one I'd memorized in the mirror these last three months.

My hope faded after a week. No more memories, no more jolts of recognition. I decided to stop just waiting around for my memory to come back. On my time off I walked around town, looking at everything, the buildings, the people, the cars. Hoping something might spark a memory. If I'd eaten at Moe's, did I live here? Maybe I had a house somewhere in town. Friends. Family.

Hard as I tried, nothing seemed to work. I tried not to be disheartened. After all, it had only been a few months. And clearly my memory wasn't _all_ gone.

I got up early one morning and turned on the news, as usual. As I showered, listening over the running water to the reporters, I caught something that peaked my interest.

"…_it's just as well it's sunny for once. I hope you're all having a wonderful Valentine's Day so far. The downtown park is a popular spot today…_"

I got out of the shower and picked up the remote, turning the volume up. Valentine's Day. Yes, I remembered it. Generally speaking, of course. I wondered if someone was missing me today. Had I had a girlfriend? A wife, even? Maybe we'd had something planned for today. Was she looking for me? Maybe she'd go to our favorite restaurant and sit alone, wondering where I'd gone.

My heart suddenly ached for this phantom woman. Was I missing someone I couldn't remember, or just the idea of her? Somehow, I thought it was the latter.

The reporter continued. The screen was now overlaid with a view of the park I'd seen downtown. As I watched, a young couple paused and the man sunk down on his knee.

"…_it's a popular day for proposals. Boys, there's still time! Buy a ring now and surprise her tonight-_"

I switched the TV off, furious. I threw the remote on the bed and angrily pulled my uniform on, fuming. It wasn't until I'd left my apartment and was storming down the steps that I realized I had no idea what I was so upset about. Now that I thought about it, the anger seemed to fade away. But there was still a pit of frustration in my chest. Was I upset about being unable to remember my sweetheart? No, that didn't seem like it, although I supposed I was… The news report, then?

I tried to dig the memory out on my way to work, but it was no use. Whatever it was, it was buried pretty deep in my subconscious. Clearly it had left a hard enough mark to affect me even after I'd forgotten about it, though. Maybe it was best I couldn't remember it.

The diner wasn't exactly the most romantic place, but we did get a few couples coming in for lunch. Plus a handful of lonely souls who seemed desperate to prove that they didn't need someone else to make them happy.

Dinner was much quieter. No one wanted to spend Valentine's dinner in a rusting dive. Which was why I was surprised, then, when a young couple came in looking for a seat. They settled for a booth set into the wall against one of the filmy windows.

The place was nearly empty but for them. I couldn't help but listen to their conversation, drawn in by the way they seemed so…content. Like there was nothing they were looking to prove, no point to tonight, or any other night for that matter. Like they were happy to just sit in a crummy diner together and talk.

They stayed long after the other customers had filtered out, off to bars or bed, or maybe their own significant other. I didn't have the heart to kick them out. The cook left and it was just me and them as I awkwardly tried to find something to do so they wouldn't feel bad about staying. I suppose I could have told them we were closing, but some part of me didn't want to interrupt. I wanted them to have a good time. If I couldn't enjoy myself tonight, _someone_ might as well.

They finally left, an hour after closing. As I was cleaning their table off, I noticed a hint of green under their plates. I pulled it out, pleased. The tips here weren't exactly impressive, and half the time the cook insisted we split them. I froze as I slid the bill out, stunned.

Benjamin Franklin smiled warmly up at me. A hundred dollars. They'd left a hundred dollar tip.

I laughed and sat down, still holding the bill. I hadn't expected it, and I wouldn't have blamed them at all for leaving a couple of quarters like everyone else. For the first time since the accident, I felt like I'd made a memory worth keeping.

I stared out the window, still smiling, and it happened again.

Was it here? Maybe. A booth, a window. I remember the chatter in the background. It was loud. Daytime, too. Lunch, I think. But the setting didn't matter. All I really seemed to notice was the _feeling_. It was like being punched in the chest in the most amazing way possible. A cold hand rested on mine and I didn't want it to ever let go. I wanted to pull on it and run away with whoever was attached to it and never think about anything else.

I remembered being in love. So hopelessly, head-over-heels in love.

* * *

For a long time after that, I found myself thinking about that hand. I lived and relived the memory, trying to pull more details out of it, the way I had with the other. Were they the same person? Somehow I didn't think so.

The hand was cold. Not icy, but cooler than mine. And rough, but I hadn't found that odd at the time. At least, not that I remembered. As hard as I tried, a face never came to mind. No details at all about her.

I knew it was possible that we'd broken up long before the accident. That maybe the memory was years old. Maybe an old fling from high school. Maybe I'd only had a crush on her. What did I know about love? I was about as experienced as a teenager now.

But…somehow I didn't think that was it. Maybe it was just hopeless optimism, but…somehow, I was pretty sure I still loved her.

I wanted so badly to know who she was. To find her. I took to watching old romance movies, hoping one might spark a memory of us, either the movie itself or the memory of seeing it before. But nothing worked.

I sat at all the tables in Moe's, since that seemed to be what did it, but nothing worked. I sat at the table I'd recognized, what I'd dubbed _our table_, for hours after closing, and whenever I got a spare moment at work, but it never jogged anything.

It had been four months since the accident now. I had eight months to find my memory before my personal deadline. Or…did this count? I'd said I'd move on if I didn't remember anything. But…this was _something_. Did this count?

I didn't know.

* * *

My broken mind refused to offer up any more kernels. A few days passed, bringing me to Monday morning. Moe handed me my check.

"You dropped me two cents an hour?" I asked, looking through it.

"Business is down." he shrugged. I was pretty sure he had a hangover.

I probably should have just let it go. It was just two cents. I would live. But I was so fed up with Moe and the way he treated me. I slammed the coffee pot in my hand on the counter a bit too hard. It shattered, sending a wave of glass and coffee onto the floor and into my hand.

I gasped and shook my hand, trying to get the burning coffee and broken glass off. Moe just laughed at me. Laughed like he'd never seen anything so hysterical in his life. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to cry. I wanted to punch his stupid face.

I wanted my life back.

It all just hit me at once. My stupid, dead-end job, my stupid boss, my stupid broken memory. Something inside me snapped. I locked myself in the bathroom and burst into tears, running cool water over my burning hand. I picked bits of glass out of my skin and tossed them in the trash. There was a nasty blister forming at the base of my thumb and another on my knuckle. The rest of my hand was red and puffy. It didn't hurt much now, but I knew later I'd pay for this.

I didn't care. I sat down on the dirty floor and tried to calm down. My breath was still coming in choking sobs. There were tears running down my face and dripping off my chin. I just wanted to curl up and die. I hated my life. Hated everything about it. Why me? Why did this all have to happen to _me?_ Why'd I have to lose my memory? Why was no one _looking_ for me? Didn't they care? Anyone at all?

There was a knock on the door.

"Quit bawling and get to work." Moe growled through the door. I managed to catch my breath and splashed a bit of cold water on my face. Just because he assumed I'd been crying didn't mean I would give him the pleasure of knowing he was right. When my face had returned to its normal color, I opened the door.

Moe was already gone. I went back to the counter, where the now-cooled coffee was still soaking into the floors. Of course Moe wouldn't have bothered to clean it up. Or anyone else, for that matter. I sighed and knelt down, picking up the worst of the glass, careful not to cut myself again. I'd have to find a glove or something for later. I couldn't handle food with my hand like this. The idea of a latex glove, however, made my hand ache.

As I was sopping up the spilled coffee, someone rapped their fingers on the counter.

"Hey, dude, it's been like, twenty minutes since we got here. Isn't there anyone else working here and stuff?"

"I'll be right with you." I said automatically.

"Well it's just I'm _hungry_." he said. I looked up, but he was hidden behind the counter. "And stuff…"

"Just a moment." I told him blandly, wiping up the rest of the broken glass. "Take a seat, I'll be right over."

He groaned and left. I sighed. Sometimes we got some really annoying customers like that. People who apparently didn't notice that I was trying to hold the place together myself. We'd had someone else a few months ago to run the register and clean up, but he quit almost as soon as I started. Not surprising, really. I got the feeling no one worked for Moe for very long.

Now, of course, I was stuck trying to run the whole damn thing myself. The cook in the back was no help. I wasn't even sure what his name was. George or Jeffrey or something like that, maybe. Not a talkative guy.

I washed my hands off and covered the worse of the burns with a towel. I'd find a glove later. Right now there were apparently orders to be taken.

The place was rather empty. The customer who'd bothered me was still talking. To himself, from the looks of it, though on closer inspection I saw the headset in his ear. I waited for him to notice me, tapping my foot impatiently.

"Sir?" I said after a moment. "Sir, please, I'm busy-"

"Okay, okay, um, just a sec." He pulled the headset out of his ear and looked at his menu. "Let me see…" He hadn't even chosen his food yet? I bit back an exasperated sigh and let out an agreeing grunt.

"I'll have…a hamburger…with fries…and…that still comes with salad, right? Yeah, salad. But make it one of those chicken ones, you know? The other guy knew. I forget what it's called. And like, you still have soup, right? Yeah, okay, gimme a bowl of that. I don't care, it's all good. And…oh, a Dr. Pepper to drink."

He turned and handed me the menu. I reached out for it, trying to keep his order straight, and froze.

We made eye contact and I instantly forgot everything he'd just said.


End file.
